


One Sided Conversations: Short Stories

by PSebae



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, Other, multiple stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PSebae/pseuds/PSebae
Summary: Short stories (<3500 words) about Ocelot and Quiet, no explicit sexual content. So I don't clutter up my Works with lots of ficlets. This will be an on going Work.





	1. The Storm

**The Storm**

_2055 words_

The force of the wind hit him full in the face as he stepped out into the day. It could be barely considered day at this point, the sky was so darkly bruised with storm clouds that very little sun could get through, the lamps had all been lit but even they struggled against the low clouds that rolled over the base. There was salt on his lips, and Ocelot squinted against the wind and torrential rain, it wasn't just rain in the air, there was spray too. Already the waves had been whipped up and were slamming with full force against the side of the base. With no land mass to protect them they were the only things standing between the sea and the sky, and the angry ocean sought to pummel them into the depths with the reach of its waves. Standing on the walkways of the medical platform main deck, Ocelot was fairly sheltered from the worst of the weather. Snake was full of stitches and fast asleep, knocked out from anaesthetic. He probably wouldn't even remember the storm had happened. It would be impossibly unfair to expect Miller to come out here and handle anything when he wouldn't be able to make it two steps, so Ocelot had to be out here.

 

Ocelot. On his own. For the whole base. Against the storm.

 

He bared his teeth and hurried along the walkway, out of the relative safety of the shelter of the walkway above him, and then out into the outside of the ring of buildings. Everything was so much worse out here, he immediately clipped himself to a railing and got his bearings. He knew this place like the back of his hand already--or maybe a better comparison would be the inner workings of his revolvers, since he fairly rarely saw the back of his own hands--despite this however the weather had changed the familiar landscape into an obscure, water veiled nightmare. Populated by a tiny handful, everyone not essential had been ordered behind sealed doors, anyone outside was moving carefully from secure point to secure point.

 

Just as Ocelot was watching his crew battening down the hatches and finishing securing the guns, another wave hit the base and nearly swept him off his feet. He clung to the railings, looking pathetically hangdog with his hair plastered flat against his scalp and his pale eyes staring wildly out from behind dark curling strands that had been slapped down across his face.

 

The wave had barely retreated when he heard a strangled wail cutting off, drowned out by the roar of the sea in his flooded ears. He then noticed how dark it had become, the power had failed and the thick hatch doors that slid over the bays in the deck floor had frozen in mid place. Ocelot scowled, those should have been closed hours ago. Someone nearby thumped the control panel as if that would help, and Ocelot realised where he was and why the doors had been left so late.

 

He unbuckled himself and sprinted for the stairs leading under the deck, hoping to make it before the next wave struck. He did. Barely. The second wave hit as he was hurrying down the stairs, despite the non-slip grips lining the metal, he was still lifted off his feet. His stomach lurched as he was washed down into the bay. He struck his knee hard against the metal floor and floundered to his feet, glad that a bruise seemed to be the worst of his damage.

 

Quiet was stood on her cot, back pressed up against the railings of her cell, trying to get as far under the overhang of the doors as she could. The floor was inches deep with salt water, and the rain had picked up so much spray it wasn't much better. Her skin was red and there was even burn-like marks on her chest and forearms. She turned when Ocelot blundered up to the door, almost tripping on the rope that cordoned off her cell—it had fallen and was hidden under the water in the dark.

 

They met each others gaze for a moment as he unlocked the cell door, she looked desperate. He dragged off his coat and sloshed towards her. "The power's out," he said by means of an explanation. Not that she cared much about knowing why she was in this situation. He hopped up on the bed beside her, tossed the coat around her shoulders and head and before she could even gesture him away had scooped her up and leapt down with a splash. He felt rain soak him through anew across his back and shoulders. He hunched over Quiet as she cowered in the folds of his coat. Another wave, broken up by its journey over the deck sloshed down on them as Ocelot waded up the steps.

 

Ocelot's 'Room 101' was not the only dungeon on the base. Though it was the most feared. Ocelot had rooms on all the main decks. The majority went unused, and were only for spill over from the brig or isolating subjects. Some, like the one on the medical deck was more often employed. Unfortunately, as with room 101 the main access was via a steep set of metal stairs on the side of the deck. There was a lift within the medical building, but like the rest of the deck it would be out of power. The emergency generators were coming online now—late, Ocelot thought—but he couldn't for the life of him remember if, as a non-vital piece of equipment, it was hooked up to the emergency power or not. He glanced down at Quiet and decided it wasn't worth the risk to run for the steps.

 

Ocelot turned towards the building and as he did so, he was hit in the back by a wave. They were both inundated and thrown to the rough deck. As the water receded Ocelot was dragged along with it and only just had the wherewithal to grab at his harness before the next wave hit and dragged him, coughing and spluttering, overboard. Someone was snatching at him, his arm, his collar... But the water was too strong.

 

He lurched to a halt a couple of feet over the edge. Staring in confused horror at the roiling sea below him. It was heaving itself upwards towards him and sucking away again with terrible power and promising finality. Suddenly something was twisting his shirt and he looked up at Quiet, clinging to the railings, leant over and dragging him back upwards. She'd had time, while clutching for him in competition with the wave, to slam the safety catch down against the metal pole of the railings, which he now grabbed and with her help half climbed, half fell back onto the base.

 

Quiet was shaking like a leaf in the storm, salt burns and little to no sunlight for hours sapping her energy. Ocelot clung to her as the sea tore at them once more. Then, as the waves receded and prepared for another assault, Ocelot scooped Quiet up in his arms and sprinted for the buildings. Someone saw him coming and opened a door for him in time, and they careened through. Ocelot didn't stop moving until they'd reached the tiny lift that occasionally brought him less fit individuals for interrogation. Quiet leaned heavily on him, but she was soaked through and touching the salt water in his clothes probably wasn't doing additional harm, so he let her.

 

She was barely conscious when she was put down on something almost soft. Ocelot eyed up her blueish lips warily, and wondered if that was as bad for her as a normal human, or if it was more or less exaggerated. It was so hard to know, she wasn't like anyone else he knew. Except Code Talker, and he couldn't very well go running to him right now. There were no windows down here, but there were air-vents, which Ocelot switched on to encourage a flow of fresh(ish) air. He also had a row of small plant pots, carefully tended. Ocelot altered the grow light to shine across the room more then came back to Quiet.  
  
She was laying on a narrow bunk that he'd rigged up on one side of his office, which was rapidly becoming a second bedroom. Quiet was dimly aware of mumbled apologies and of the mixed sense of freedom and panic as her clothing was removed. A minute or two after her tights were peeled off and she'd been left nude on the scratchy whatever it was, something wet and blessedly cool was dabbed over her cheek and forehead. Her head was raised and placed on something, water was drizzled over her head until the salt water was mostly rinsed from her hair. Surprisingly little water was reaching his bed, Quiet seemed to thirstily drink most of it up, and for that he was grateful. Soggy mattresses weren't his idea of a good time. With her face and head feeling considerably cooler and less like it had been rubbed down with sand paper, Quiet relaxed to the sense of being washed down. Ocelot watched the skin around her eyes flash dark here and there, betraying moments of discomfort--he presumed. Quiet's reflex...markings... seemed to betray some arousal of emotion, but if they changed with specific emotions, he hadn’t spotted the variations yet. He couldn't help but feel decoding them would help a lot in communicating with her, so he paid attention.  
  
"I think that's the last of the salt?" he half asked, if she disagreed she didn't let him know. "I'll get you some fresh water. You'll be safe down here, get some rest."

At this she finally looked up.

"I have to go back up."

Quiet sunk back down and rolled over, her back to him. Ocelot's eyes drew imaginary lines between the scattering of moles on her back and resisted the urge to reach out and touch them. He admittedly had confused feelings for this strange woman. She wasn't the first woman he'd found physically attractive, that didn't baffle him any more, rare though it was, but between the potential for animosity and the tentative alliance they had, he wasn't sure where his attraction belonged, or if he should mention it to her. It wasn’t the nudity that caught his attention, he’d been in charge of prisoners too long to associate something as banal as a lack of clothing with something as interesting as sex. With men it was easy, he wasn’t daft, he knew he had a type. Big burly and with a beard was certainly preferable. His taste in women was a mystery. He eyed up her muscles and scars, her thick brown hair warily. It was a mystery, right?  
  
He shrugged to himself, now was not the time to be wrapping himself up in these thoughts. He pulled his coat back on, it felt horrible and his skin crawled. He gave Quiet a last glance, soft warm dry skin already starting to heal, an (almost) comfortable bed that was already starting to warm up from its occupant, sheltered and safe from the storm outside, a human body tied up with so many possible interesting appealing sensations, and here he was about to go and get even colder and wetter and probably fall sick. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, all he wanted was to crawl into bed with her and enjoy the human closeness, maybe come away with some more interesting bruises. Damn the storm and responsibilities and Snake for having the audacity to get shot.

 

Ocelot smirked.

"I'll come find you later, there's some clothing of mine in the desk, spares... You can wear some of that if you think its suitable."

She scowled at him over her shoulder, but he just smiled back benignly from behind wet rat-tail hair and a bruised cheekbone from hitting the deck. He looked terrible now, later he'd probably look like he'd been washed up on deck like a piece of flotsam.

"Thank you by the way, you almost certainly saved my life just now."

Quiet glared harder, as if she didn't want to be reminded, and silently wished him luck as he squelched away.

 


	2. In The Twilight

**In The Twilight**

_1627 words_

 

A rosy twilight had fallen on the Vista Mansion. Gold edged clouds dotted the sky and the landscape was thrown into patches of soft shadow and warm light. On one side the windows reflected the setting sun and burnt like hot embers, the sandstone walls glowed. On the other side, the house was in velvet shadow, soft blues and purples. Only one window on this side was illuminated, and that was from within.

 

Ocelot sat at his desk, head in his hands, the fluid in his ears ringing, the Liquid in his mind howling against his weak mental defences. It was a perpetual headache, but it was working. The Patriots' were anticipating behaviour akin to Liquid Snake's, they had no idea what Ocelot might do. Ocelot had no idea what Ocelot might do. He twisted his fingers into his hair until it started to hurt and drowned out the endless ache inside his head. He was alone but for the confusing clamour of his own thoughts. Naomi was on The Nomad; being his eyes and ears, sharper and clearer than his own were these days. He was alone and the house was blessedly silent. Outside one of few guards crunched on the gravel, her orange goggles gleaming in the shadows, she raised her gun slowly and curiously, one of the ground floor windows was open a crack. Her companion watched as she tried to close it from the outside, but it was a sash window that had warped and stuck in place, no matter what she did it wouldn't move and, afraid that her attempts would attract the attention of Liquid Ocelot she gave up. After all, if she couldn't move it no one else was going to, not without causing noise.

 

Ocelot listened to them rattling downstairs and peered out his own window suspiciously to see what was going on, catching a snippet of the conversation. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Yes, yes there was a stuck window downstairs, but it was stuck closed. His skin prickled with a cold not from the warm night air and he unconsciously checked for his revolver... Gone! His stomach lurched, the breath caught in his throat, then he felt it, the unfamiliar weight of the pistol against his ribs and he forced himself to relax. The grounds were a mess from the militia that had assaulted the place, many of the rooms had been disturbed. Ocelot didn't care. He didn't care about much at all any more. His troops had swept the place clean however, there was no one left alive here. No doubt someone had previously attempted to open the window, and it had got it stuck in a new position. So he told himself. He quietly opened the door to his study and slunk out onto the landing. His ears strained to pick up sounds of movement in the large house. It wouldn't hurt to do a last check of the place before he retired for the night. He trusted his guards, but not as much as himself. His hand slid over his chest to the grip of the pistol, the plastic grip unfamiliar and discomforting under his hand.

 

He padded silently along the thickly carpeted hall, checking rooms one by one. He was just about to turn back and head in the other direction when, from downstairs, there was the unmistakeable sound of a door closing sharply, blown shut by air pressure? The open window? Ocelot trotted to the top of the stairs, gun in hand, eyes staring wildly into the pool of darkness that lay below him. Paranoia throttled him but his breathing remained deep and steady. He slunk down the stairs, pressing close to the wall, but careful not to make too much noise as he did so. Slowly his old eyes grew accustomed to the inky darkness in the belly of the house and he pushed onwards. The floor here was often tiled or floorboards, and he had to be careful to make less noise as he moved towards where the open window was.

 

The room was a dining room, with a fireplace at one end and host to a long wooden table with matching chairs. He and Naomi had never eaten in here. He'd never eaten in here. The table had never hosted a dinner party, and as long as he was alive, it never would. Some of the chairs had been over turned, during the fighting that had turned his neat home into a bullet hole riddled mess. The room was deserted. Ocelot's fingers traced nonsense patterns on the cold door handle. An ornament that must have seemed like a good idea at the time had been knocked off the mantelpiece and kicked under the only surviving window. All the others were boarded up. The ornament was rocking slowly, as if recently disturbed. Ocelot clenched his jaw and turned tightly on the spot, turning his back to the deserted room to face the hall. So, it wasn't just paran--the floor creaked upstairs. Damn it! They'd waited for him and gotten past him! But... But why?

 

Ocelot, who'd fallen into a crouch the moment he'd heard the creak, skittered into the shadows by the stairs he was sure his quarry, or hunter, had hidden in. Why dodge around him and go upstairs? He hadn't seen them, so were they not here for him? He tried to imagine who could have managed to get past him. Maybe Naomi had left something here that was important and she'd sent Snake back... Would Snake confront him? Was he ready to face Snake? What if it wasn't? What if another PMC had decided enough was enough from Outer Heaven and wanted to nip it in the flowering bud? He bared his teeth in the darkness and hissed to himself. No, no they wouldn't face him head on would they... They'd wait. Wait until he thought he was safe, try to take him out in his sleep. He took a deep breath through his nose and checked the lock on the closest door to the outside, secure, and he had the key. Then he slipped back up the stairs.

 

There was the subtle sound of boots brushing over carpet and Ocelot froze at the corner, peered around and saw his door was open. 

Had... he left it open? No... Maybe? His head hurt. His head always hurt.

He shook himself and moved closer, paused, checked the safety, moved again... And swung around to face the open room, gun raised, demands tripping over the tip of his tongue.

There was no one there.

The door to the roof was open.

He ran to it and was outside before he could check himself, but he already knew what he'd find: nothing.

Whoever was here, whatever they wanted, they were gone and had taken it.

 

Or left it.

 

Ocelot put the gun away and returned to his room, called for the guards to perform a sweep of the house for foreign objects and threats and proceeded to do the same to his own room, expecting to find a bomb or trap around every corner, under every cupboard. There was nothing however, and the guards turned up nothing either. He sat down back at his desk and rested his head on his hands.

And there, between his elbows on his creamy white writing paper... Was something he shouldn't have missed.

It was a bullet.

It belonged in a high powered rifle.

Without thinking Ocelot dived to the ground away from the windows. Nothing happened. Nothing happened for a long while, while he crawled over and pulled the curtains and turned off the lights. Outside the guards thought he'd simply, finally, gone to bed. Ocelot didn't sleep much any more. He sat on the cool stone tiles and blinked until he could see again. A part of him just wanted to hug his knees and sit there the rest of the night, he was so tired. Part of him wanted to call the guards again and have them check the area, again, but his gut told him he'd be dead by now if there was a sniper after him.

He got to his feet and shuffled back to the desk. The large bullet glittered in the ambient light.

 

His fingers ran over its cool casing.

 

Someone had opened a window he'd given up on, that his guards could neither open nor close.

They'd managed to slip past him in nothing more than a shadow.

They'd left nothing but a bullet, and yet... And yet it didn't seem like a threat.

 

Outside there was a sudden commotion and Ocelot pocketed the bullet and hurried out onto the terrace, outside his guards were busy congregating around the body of an individual who'd just toppled off the wall. He was one of the local militia, Ocelot could see the red beret from here, knocked far away from the shattered remains of his skull.

Someone saw him and called up: "He's been shot sir!"

"Who by?"

The soldiers glanced at each other.

"There's no snipers out here tonight sir, but that's what got him!"

The sun had set, the late evening was full of the sound of night insects and birds settling down for night. Whomever was out there was well hidden.

"What shall we do sir?"

Ocelot closed his eyes. "Forget it." He called down.

"Forget it, sir?"

"Yes." He said, too quiet for them to hear, and vanished back inside.

 

He locked the door, but the lock was a joke. He laughed emptily and without humour.

"If she wanted to kill us..." His voice said from too many years in the past. "We'd all be dead by now."


End file.
